(From “Diaries...) Jackboots and Handcuffs Jul 31: Today we get careless and the result may be a trip to jail. It’s the second day of a two-day snorkeling survey. That’s when we count baby steelhead, while we swim (or “slither,” as is the case more often than not) and snorkel up short reaches of the stream. The trouble is, a few of the survey sites are kind of “sensitive.” They have landowners who don’t share our view that the public has certain rights to access and use the river, because of its navigable status. Nor are these naysayers especially enamored by the worthy goal of my work–namely, to help ensure that a wild population of steelhead will still be swimming here decades from now for future generations to enjoy. So whenever we approach one of these “hostile” locations on the survey route, the concept of “out-of-sight, out-of-mind” applies. We try not to park nearby–always a good distance away. We use stealth entering and leaving the river. We radio back our data to one person left waiting with the car (which is necessary anyway, because of the high prevalence of vandalism to cars left parked along the road), to minimize time spent on site. But today we’re in a hurry and forget our own rules. It’s the last site on the list and it is also my birthday. I really would like to get home early. So, foolishly, we park right next to the bridge and the survey team descends down the hill to the quietly flowing stream. But we do at least go to work with urgency, knowing that time is of the essence. One of my tasks as leader is to keep one ear closely tuned to the roadway just above us. Within minutes, the first vehicle is heard passing and then lumbering slowly up the hill. Soon, another car follows suit. Good, we’re almost done; just another five minutes should do it. But now a truck with a poor excuse for a muffler rumbles onto the bridge. It slows and then stops–muffler pounding a rhythmic drumbeat. Is it a naysayer, or is our car about to be vandalized? I decide to check it out and scramble quickly up the steep hillside. As I emerge, breathless, from beneath the bridge, I am met with an unfriendly greeting: “You’re trespassing,” the naysayer exhorts, “and the sheriff is on the way!” I don’t even bother trying to explain. I know the last name of these two local boys; their daddy (one of the area’s real land barons) once nearly spat in my face when I sought his permission for a survey through another part of his kingdom. Any attempt at rationalizing with this clan would be fruitless. Minutes later, just as we bring the last of our gear up the hill, the deputy rolls up. A shiny new SUV is fully-tricked-out for the mission. And I marvel at the rapid response time (since my cell phone won’t even work here) and muse about whether it will be so swift some day when I may need him (for rescue or otherwise). As if not to be outclassed by his wheels, the deputy’s appearance exudes pure pride and testosterone: spit-polished boots; deep-v-tailored shirt tight enough to hurt; and every gadget known to modern-day law enforcement hanging from the belt. He approaches briskly, notebook at the ready. The naysayers now relax a bit and step back. But both still display broad, partially toothless grins delivering their unspoken message: “Gotshya!” So we are taken aback by the deputy’s opening query: “And which easement did you use to get down to the water?” I spew forth the explanation, prepared long ago in anticipation of one day ending up in court. Then, the obligatory details–names, addresses, identifications and warrant checks for each of us–are duly gathered. And the naysayers are finally signaled that they are no longer needed–and they rumble slowly away. Further interrogation ensues. “And just what is your interpretation of your rights and abilities with respect to navigable streams and rivers in this State?” I am challenged. Before my verbal treatise on the subject can be completed, it is cut short by the abrupt closing of the deputy’s notebook. “Okay, you guys can go. Have a nice day,” he says. “And where does that leave us?” I inquire. “Well, I’ll file my report and we’ll see what the DA wants to do,” is the response that sends us on our way. The long drive home provides ample opportunity for us to dissect the day’s encounter in detail. There’s also time to lay bets on when the DA’s decision will be known. (Note: With still no word 18 months later–and counting–we will, not reluctantly, conclude that the question is moot.) We also unanimously agree that from today on, the “out-of-sight, out-of-mind” doctrine must be religiously applied whenever our activities lead to sites on the river where naysayers may be lurking in shadows.